


Don't Fall Asleep At The Helm

by peepo



Category: Wolf 359 (Radio)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, M/M, Mental Illness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-22
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-04 00:56:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,846
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12158304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/peepo/pseuds/peepo
Summary: Dmitri Volodin is a man without purpose. He thinks too much, and acts too little. When every waking second is a battle against himself, he doesn't see any compelling reasons to try and make it another day.Until he finds Doug Eiffel.Warnings in the Author's notes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is based on my own personal experience with depression. There is heavily implied references to depression and suicidal ideation.  
> If you suffer from suicidal ideation, please contact the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline: 1-800-273-8255  
> Or the Trevor Project for a LGBTQA-focused suicide prevention line: 1-866-488-7386  
> Or call 9-1-1 if you're in immediate danger of hurting yourself. 
> 
> Hopefully this warning hasn't warded you off from reading the fic. It's going to get fun, I promise.

 

“Have you considered getting a pet?”

Dmitri, arms crossed tight and slumped in his chair, doesn’t say anything. He continues staring at the woman across the room with the same disdainful expression as always.

“I think having something to be responsible for, like a houseplant or a pet, could alleviate some of the,” she airquotes with her fingers, “‘Worthlessness,’ you’ve been feeling.” He sighs. His mind is somewhere else. Not in this cold room, or his empty apartment, or in the dirty city outside. No, his mind is in a lockbox under his bed.

He checks his watch. “Thank you for suggestion. Will take it into. . . consideration. I must go now.”

“Are you sure, Dmitri? You paid for a whole hour.” She says as he starts to stand, putting on his coat.

“Is fine. See you in two weeks.” With that, he leaves.

 

The air smells like gasoline and rain. Cars speed by the sidewalk, the wind breaking off them blowing fallen leaves and litter around Dmitri’s feet. He shoves his hands in his coat pockets and watches the cars pass. Imagines how easy it would be to just walk in front of one. He shakes his head and starts walking home.

His feet have been feeling heavier lately. Walking seems to take much more effort than it used to. He drags his feet a couple blocks, it takes him twice as long as it should. He feels twice as tired. He stops at a crosswalk, and looks up at the dark, churning clouds. Sometime since his walk began, tiny raindrops had begun to fall, it was only just now that he noticed. Just as he takes his first step to cross, a speeding car makes a much too sharp turn and just barely misses Dmitri. The car honks as it passes, as if it’s Dmitri’s fault for being there. He doesn’t react, just imagines his mangled body skidding across the street if the car has been only a few inches closer.

Slowly, he makes his way across another block, stewing in his thoughts. He doesn’t want to think of anything, he just wants his mind to stop. But, it can’t. It’s a blessing and a curse.

He thinks of philosophy, mostly. Different hypothesis about the reality of our world. Whether it be he is being deceived by an evil demon, and his existence just a cruel game. Whether he is merely a line of code, and anything not in his direct line of sight is simply a computational potentiality, and anything outside of his radial view of the curvature of the Earth is not even in render distance at all.

Whether god is real or not, and if so why there’s so much suffering on Earth? If an all-knowing, all-powerful, all-good god is real, then how can sin exist? If He doesn’t know there is sin on Earth, then He is all-powerful, and all-good, but not all-knowing. If He knows there is sin, and doesn’t want there to be sin, but has no control over whether there is sin or not, then He is all-knowing, and all-good, but not all-powerful. And if He knows there is sin, has the power to stop sin, but chooses not to. Well, god must not be very good after all.

Amidst his internal philosophical debates with himself, a common thought reoccurs every so often: the lockbox under his bed. Maybe tonight is--

A wet, gurgling scream tears him from his thoughts. He stills his walking, and listens. Through the rain, now falling heavily, the busy noises of traffic, and the chatter of pedestrians, he hears the faint sound of flesh against flesh, and a dull thud. He listens closer, and starts to hesitantly follow the sound of the scuffling. The sound seems to be coming from a nearby alley. Pressing his back against the brick wall adjacent the entrance, he very cautiously looks over his shoulder and catches a glimpse of the innards of the dark alley. Not wanting to be seen, he quickly leans back behind the wall away from view.

From the quick glance, he gathered that there are three men, two standing, one crouching. All three are looking at something on the ground, visually obscured by a dumpster. He assumes what they’re looking at is a person--the source of the scream. He hears laughter, then four dull hits against something soft in quick succession. A matching grunt for each. They’re saying something, but he can’t make it out.

Dmitri knows nothing about the situation. The three men could be defending themselves against a robber or a rapist, for all he knew. He should just forget about this situation and continue on home, and continue thinking, and continue wishing he’d just stop breathing.  
He hears a hard metallic clang, followed by a pained wimper.

Before he can think otherwise, Dmitri starts speaking in Russian, very loudly. Not quite yelling, but talking in as a loud a voice he could muster. He turns around and starts strutting down the alley toward the group of men. He’s saying nonsense, honestly, and he’s betting on none of the attackers being fluent enough in Russian to understand him. He’s also betting on them internalizing enough Russian stereotypes to be afraid of him.

The three men simultaneously look up at him and stiffen. Dmitri starts pointing at them threateningly, continuing to speak absolute Russian gibberish. He points at the dumpster, then at the wall to his left, then back at the three men. He really hopes they don’t notice his hands shaking.

He hears one of the guys mutter, “the fucks this guy’s problem,” before hitting the guy right of him on the shoulder and turning to leave, his two partners following closely behind. They look over their shoulders, keeping watch of Dmitri, before disappearing behind a corner. Shoulders heaving as he catches his breath, Dmitri glares at the empty spot they once were. His fists, clenched, haven’t stopped trembling.

As he comes down from his adrenaline rush, and the tight knot in his stomach begins to unfurl, he remembers why he’s here in the first place. He turns to look at the person previously hidden from view. On the grimy asphalt lies a man, curled into a loose fetal position. His head is steadily bleeding from a huge gash on his forehead. The blood, diluted from the rain, has washed down his gnarled, bruised face and is beginning to pool.

Dmitri kneels down to inspect him further. The man’s breathing is ragged and strained sounding, but he’s breathing nonetheless. His eyes are closed, Dmitri isn’t sure if he’s fully aware or not. Gently, he touches the man’s head, but even as the man teeters on the edge of unconsciousness, he manages to flinch back and inhale sharply through clenched teeth. Dmitri is reminded of a scared cat.

“What is your name?” Dmitri asks, keeping his voice low. The man doesn’t answer, just breathes a deep, raggedy breath. He quickly sweeps his gaze down the man’s pants, looking for a visible wallet line, which may hold an ID. After seeing nothing, he stands up and dials 9-1-1. He reports the incident and location to the operator, and hangs up. An ambulance should be here in approximately six minutes. He takes one last look at the man bleeding out before him, before turning on his heel and walking away.

If there was a god, He wouldn’t let things like that happen.

 

By the time Dmitri rounds the corner of the entrance to the alley, his walking has again slowed to practically a crawl. With an adrenaline rush comes an adrenaline drop, and adrenaline drops don’t combine well with depleted serotonin. His mind is occupied. While the devil and god are usually raging inside him, Dmitri finds himself distracted from philosophical reasonings for the first time in a decade.

He thinks of the man in the alley.

His walking stops completely. Passersby, some with umbrellas, some without, rush past him from both directions, trying to get out of the heavy downpour. Absentmindedly, he turns around, and without any sort of conscious thought on the matter, starts walking back.

As the dumpster the man is hidden behind comes into view, he can hear not-too-distant sirens echoing down the streets.

The pool of blood surrounding the man’s head has spread a significant amount. He’s unconscious now. Or he’s dead. Dmitri kneels to the man’s side and checks his breathing and pulse. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s still alive. Dmitri wonders what other injuries the attackers caused. Eyeing the hem of the man’s shirt, drenched in rainwater, he considers checking for himself. He reaches over, and gently peels the man’s wet shirt up to the bottom of his ribs.

From the top of his pelvic bone, to somewhere above where the hem of the shirt rests, spans a huge dark red bruise. Dmitri reaches out a finger, and, light as a feather, touches a spot on the man’s bruising abdomen. Just then, the ambulance pulls up to the entrance of the alley and parks. A few spaces behind the ambulance parks a police car. Dmitri lowers the man’s shirt and retracts his hand just as two paramedics hop out and sprint over to Dmitri and the man.

Dmitri steps back to allow them room to perform emergency care. He’s watching from the side with rapt attention, so focused on the scene in front of him he surprises himself. Never, since he was a little boy in Russia, has Dmitri cared so much about the outcome of another person’s misfortune.

He watches as, with practiced ease, they lift the man onto a stretcher, strap him in, and wheel his unconscious body to the back of the ambulance.

The rain, paired with a strange pit of anxiety hardening in his chest, is making him feel a deep cold penetrating his entire body. He doesn’t know when his hands started shaking again.

A police officer holding a black umbrella comes to Dmitri’s side for questioning. He offers to share the umbrella space, and Dmitri agrees, crouching to stand under the protection of the umbrella.

He gives a basic description of the attackers, and reports what he witnessed. After a very brief questioning, the officer asks, “and, do you personally know the victim?”

Dmitri watches the ambulance begin to drive away, lights ablaze and sirens blaring. Suddenly, he feels a different kind of cold grow inside him, one not caused by weather or anxiety. One caused by something else. He doesn’t know how to describe it.

He turns back to the police officer and looks him in the eye. “Yes,” he says with as much honesty in his voice as he can manage, “he is my husband.”


	2. Chapter 2

Dmitri checks his watch for the fourteenth time that hour, and sighs. His clothes are still damp from the rain, and he’s cold, and  _very_ bored. He’s been sitting in the same waiting room chair for so long, he’s sure he’s going to leave a lasting depression in the cushion. Despite his boredom, or maybe because of it, he can’t stop thinking of the man he found in the alley. The man being operated on this very moment. The man Dmitri lied to a police officer for, just because he couldn’t bear to see him go.

The cold pit in his stomach hasn’t gone away, but isn’t quite as intense as it was when he thought he was never going to see the man again. Dmitri still doesn’t know what the feeling means.

It’s been a little over four hours since he left his therapists office. Dmitri thinks of what he would have done in those four hours if he hadn’t intervened on the fight in the alley. If he’d have just pretended not to hear the man’s screams, just like every other passerby, and kept walking.

Twelve minutes after he’d walked away from the fight, he would have arrived at the stairs leading to the door to his apartment. Twelve and half minutes after, he would have been unlocking his door. Thirteen minutes after, he’d have dropped his keys on the only end-table he owns, next to his couch. Fifteen minutes after, he’d have undressed down to his boxers and sat on his bed. He would have sat there for ten minutes, staring at a blank wall. Twenty-five minutes after, he would have finally gathered enough energy to move. Twenty-five minutes and thirty seconds after, he would have been reaching under his bed, for the lockbox. Twenty-six minutes after, the lockbox would have been opened, he would have picked up the object inside and--

“Sir? You can come see your husband, now.” Dmitri flinches, not expecting to be startled out of his train of thought.

He follows the nurse, half listening to her reading out the information on the man’s medical chart. He’s distracted with a sudden anxiety. He knows nothing about the man who he claimed to be his husband. He could be mentally insane, or homophobic, or a fan of musical theater. He could, potentially, not even speak English. The man behind the door that seems to be approaching much too fast for Dmitri’s liking, could be any infinite number of possibilities regarding who he is as a person. And odds are, whoever he is, he isn’t going to be too happy about some stranger pretending to be his husband.

The door, which Dmitri has been waiting four hours to enter, is now right in front of him. He holds his breath, stares at the door handle, but doesn’t move to open it. The nurse doesn’t seem to notice his anxiety, or doesn’t care, and opens the door. She steps inside, expecting Dmitri to follow.

As he enters the cold, sterile-smelling room, Dmitri braces himself for anything from confused questioning to berated yelling. He visibly sags with relief when he discovers the man is asleep, confronting his anxieties can be put-off for a while longer.

“He should wake up pretty soon,” the nurse quietly says--voice just above a whisper.

Dmitri nods in reply, not looking away from the sleeping man. The nurse gestures to a comfortable looking chair between the man’s bed and a large window, before turning away and leaving, gently closing the door behind her.

He sits, and settles into the cushiony chair. Resting his chin on his hand, he watches the man’s chest rise and fall with each breath. The man has a breathing tube inserted into his nostrils, and an IV in the inner corner of his left elbow. He’s also heavily bandaged on his forehead. Peeking from below the top of his hospital gown, he can see more bandages, and two tubes coming from underneath them. A blanket covers everything below that, and Dmitri wonders just how extensive his injuries are.

Again, his thoughts wander to the lockbox under his bed. Then another thought interrupts that one-- what would have become of the man, if Dmitri hadn’t been there?

He didn’t notice it before, but since he walked into this room, Dmitri hasn’t felt the strange, cold pit in his stomach. Like just seeing the man again cured him of that indescribable feeling.

 

After an hour of watching the man breathe, Dmitri begins to feel antsy in his seat, and is in desperate need of a stretch. Carefully, he stands from the chair and pops his back. Without making too much noise, he takes a few steps toward the window and looks out. Sometime in the last hour, the sun had fully gone down. Massive, dark clouds still cover the sky, but the rain has stopped. Dmitri watches tiny lights moving up and down the busy city streets in the distance. He’s watching thousands of people go about their lives, all at once. Thousands of complex, incredible, beautiful lives, and he’s only able to witness a mere moment in each of them. The usual, intense feeling of hollow loneliness that plagues him after a moment of sonder comes. Suddenly, he feels such aggressive hyperempathy that there’s not a doubt in his mind he will surely go mad. However the instant he turns around, and sees the man whose life he saved, the feeling dissipates, and while left emotionally exhausted, Dmitri is sane once again. He needs a cigarette.

 

He shares a lighter with a surgeon, and spends the ten minutes he’s smoking watching a line of ants navigate their way back home.

 

The door to the room is open when he returns, and he hears voices inside. He stops in his tracks. He hears the nurse from before, and a deep, sort of scratchy voice. They laugh about something. The deeper voice’s laugh ends in violent coughing.

Dmitri hears light footsteps coming his way, and before he can panic, the nurse turns out of the room and just barely stops herself from knocking intro Dmitri.

“Oh!” She says, smiling, “I didn’t see you there! Sir,” she turns back to face the man on the bed, “your husband is here to see you.”

“My _what.”_

Dmitri watches as she walks down the hall in great strides, before turning a corner. He takes a deep breath, and enters the room.

“Hello, honey.” He deadpans, “I have some explaining to do.” And with that, closes the door behind him.


	3. Chapter 3

“I think you’ve got the wrong guy,” the man says, voice raw and hoarse, Dmitri can hardly hear it. “Unless. . . I got hit so hard I lost my memories. Don’t tell me I’m Rachel McAdams and you’re Channing Tatum, and I’m going to have to fall in love with you all over again.”

“No. As I said, I will explain,” he says, making his way over to the chair, angling it so he can face the man without having to make him turn and pull his injuries.

He sits in the chair with his legs crossed, one foot anxiously tapping in the air as he mentally prepares to begin his explanation. The man is looking at Dmitri with big, confused eyes. Dmitri is grateful he’s reacting to the situation with an air of amused curiosity, rather than anger. Being hopped up on painkillers is probably helping in that regard.

“My name is Dmitri Volodin,” he begins, “I was walking by when I heard you scream in alley. I scared off three men who were attacking you, and called for ambulance.”

“And when the ambulance showed up you just . . . Decided to tell them we were married?”

Dmitri is silent for a long moment. He stares into his lap, while carefully considering what to say next. “I did not want you to be just another passing stranger. I . . . Wanted to know if you were going to die or not.”

The man doesn’t reply for a second, before, in the most pathetic, scratchiest voice says, “Dude, that’s kinda gay.” Dmitri doesn’t look up from his lap, nor does he respond.

The sound of Dmitri’s chair scraping against the floor is too grating a contrast to the calm, air conditioned white noise of the room. A wave of regret washes over the man sitting in the bed, as he watches Dmitri start walking toward the door, pointedly glaring downward.

“Waitwaitwait, I didn’t mean it like that!” He tries as best he can to speak through the pain in his throat. Dmitri grabs the door handle, but doesn’t move to open the door, just continues looking down.

“My name is Doug Eiffel. Please, stay.”

After a moment, Dmitri sighs, dropping his hold on the door handle and letting his hand fall to his side.

“It was a joke. I’m sorry.” Doug laughs weakly, “just trying to lighten the mood, you know?”

Dmitri sits back down in the chair. “Bad joke.”

They sit in silence, awkwardly avoiding eye-contact with the each other. Finally, Doug says, “well, this sucks.”

Dmitri looks to him and raises an eyebrow questioningly.

“I mean, I don’t have health insurance,” Doug continues, his voice, hoarse and cracking. “And I don’t have nearly good enough credit to take out a loan to pay for this. How much is this hospital stay even going to be? Five-hundred, six-hundred dollars?” He’s rambling more to himself, than he is to Dmitri. “Man, how am I gonna--”

“8,870 dollars.” Dmitri interrupts. “Another five-hundred if you sleep here tonight.”

Doug makes a noise, sounding like half a cough and half a gasp, then turns to look at the wall opposite the side Dmitri is sitting, hiding his face from his view.

Sounding almost defeated, with a wistfully hopeful inflection, Doug says, “I really, _really_ hope you didn’t mean to say ‘dollars,’ and you meant that in Russian Rubles.”

“Nyet.”

There’s another long pause of silence, before Doug’s breath hitches once. Then again. Like he’s trying with all his might to choke back tears. When Dmitri sees his shoulders start minutely shaking, something inside him breaks.

He begins mulling over a few ideas to help the man, mentally discarding some ridiculous ones. One outlandish option comes to mind, and the thought of it makes him frown in disgust. He entertains a few different ideas, before coming back to the outlandish one again. He stews on the thought, anxiety rising at the mere possibility of it.

But then he realizes, he doesn’t give a single shit.

“I could. . .” he starts, voice hesitant. Doug looks up at him with red, watery eyes. “I suppose I could pay for bill, for now. And you pay me back over time. Without interest.”

Doug, looking gravely serious, says, “That isn’t some cruel joke, is it? You’re not trying to pull my leg here?”

“Nyet. No leg-pulling.”

Doug sniffs, and attempts to wipe his face with his arm, but winces at the pain. It seems he can only raise his arms so high.

“Would you like me to call preppy nurse to help?” Dmitri asks.

“That’d be rad, yeah,” Doug says, beaming up at him. At the sight of the man’s goofy smile, Dmitri’s heart jumps. He scowls, purposely numbing all emotions but indifference.

 

The nurse comes in, she helps Doug out, and they discuss whether or not he should stay the night. He has three broken ribs on his right side, the rest heavily bruised. He has major bruising in the abdomen, and before the operation, moderate internal bleeding. His throat has deep bruises wrapped across the front, that paired with the strain from screaming is what made Doug lose his voice. And his skull has a slight fracture on the impact site, underneath the huge gash on his forehead.

Although, while his injuries may be severe, staying overnight is entirely optional for Doug.

He weighs his options, stay overnight and accumulate more debt, or leave and. . .

“I’ll leave.”

 

Doug’s clothing was destroyed by the trauma team. The trauma team gets a real kick out of shearing people’s clothing.

“That was my favorite shirt,” he whines when the nurse tells him the tragic fate of the Hawaiian shirt he bought in Vegas fifteen years ago.

“I personally thought it was hideous,” Dmitri says, crossing his arms and leaning back in his chair. It has been about seven hours since he found Doug in the alley. Seven hours and fifteen minutes since he left his therapist’s office. Eight hours since he last left his apartment. Nine hours since he woke up. He is _exhausted._ This is the most activity Dmitri has done since leaving town to attend a NASA Social last year. He can feel his eyes fighting to stay open.

The nurse leaves to find Doug some pants he can wear.

“You need money for taxi?” Dmitri asks.

Doug thinks for a long while, before answering, “Nah. It’s cool, thanks.”

“Good. You have phone number?”

“Sheesh, so forward! Are you always this blunt when flirting?"

Dmitri huffs out his nose, “Do not be absurd. Am only asking so we can discuss your debt to me.”

“Did you see a phone on me when you found me?”

“Nyet.”

Doug sighs, “In that case, no. I don’t have a phone. Wanna just meet somewhere tomorrow?”

They make plans to meet at a local vegetarian Thai restaurant in walking distance of Dmitri’s apartment.

The nurse returns, and while she helps Doug into a loose pair of scrub bottoms, Dmitri turns around and looks out the window. Miniscule flakes of white pelt against the window before disappearing. It’s become cold enough to snow. The snow probably won’t stick, not for another few weeks at least.

Dmitri turns back to Doug, now hunched over sitting off the edge of the bed, wearing only scrub bottoms. He watches from behind as the nurse removes Doug’s IV and tapes gauze over where it was. Now that Doug’s torso is no longer covered from the blanket, Dmitri can see that the bandages wrap from the bottom of his armpits all the way down his back.

The nurse leaves again to retrieve Doug’s prescription of painkillers and antibiotics. Dmitri walks over to Doug, and from behind, drapes his coat over him. Doug gasps, not expecting the weight.

“Is snowing out. Return this to me tomorrow, or I will have to kill you. Do not make me spend energy looking for place to hide body, Doug.”

“Da, Comrade! Thanks,” Doug turns his head as much as his injuries will allow and smiles at Dmitri, “and you can call me Eiffel.”

“Okay, Eiffel.”

 

Dmitri leaves Eiffel’s room and drags his feet to the financial desk. He feels like he has weights strapped to his feet, and every step is like treading through mud. After what feels like years of walking, he comes to an impasse. On his left, the stairwell. On his right, the elevator.

He considers his options. It’s not even a question, honestly. He’s not sick, not in the least. He’s fine. The elevator is reserved for disabled people. So, why does the elevator sound so compelling? He sighs, decisions like this would be easier to make if he were dead.

Pride intact, Dmitri takes the stairs. Each step is painstakingly slow.

Finally, he reaches the financial desk. The woman working there gives him a receipt of Eiffel’s information, and papers he can fill out and return to the hospital later. He’s grateful he doesn’t have to fill paperwork now, he barely has enough energy to stay awake let alone think of finances.

 

He spends the taxi ride home leaning his head against the passenger window letting the rumble of the street lull him nearly to sleep. He consciously begins gathering energy to stand when they turn onto his street, not wanting to make the driver wait for him to gather energy once they park.

 

Locking the door behind him, he kicks his shoes off, and using his phone as a flashlight, sluggishly makes his way to the bathroom.

He takes a piss, and doesn’t bother zipping his pants back up, just shoves them off and leaves them on the bathroom floor. His reflection looks just about as bad as he feels. Huge bags encircle the bottom of his tired eyes, and he can’t gather enough energy to even attempt to change his expression from his resting bitch face.

He shifts his eyes downward at his toothbrush sitting in its holder on the counter. He desperately wants to brush his teeth, but thinks of all the steps brushing his teeth would entail, and how much energy it would take to complete each step. Just the thought of trying to exert that much energy right now makes him even more tired.

He decides he’ll brush his teeth _extra good_ in the morning. And walks out of the bathroom, turning off the light as he leaves.

Finally, he enters his bedroom. He flops face down onto his messy covers, shoves his head under a pillow, and feels relief as the weight of the world lifts off his body.

He sleeps for fourteen hours that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Edit: After talking with a friend about hospital bills, decided to change the amount Eiffel's procedure costs.


	4. Chapter 4

Dmitri, sat in his favorite window seat, passively browses the menu. While this is his favorite restaurant, every item listed makes him feel nauseous when he imagines actually eating it. It’s not news to him that his appetite has been very poor lately, as tea and water seems to be the only consumable he can actually stomach.

Perusing the curry entrees, Dmitri wracks his mind, backtracking to when he last ate. Yesterday morning, he decides to settle on. He had a fruit parfait for breakfast, but skipped all the yogurt and nuts, and just ate the strawberries and blueberries. He hasn’t even felt an inkling of hunger since then.

The bell above the door jingles, and a gust of early winter wind passes through the restaurant entrance. Dmitri pointedly doesn’t look up from his menu when he hears Eiffel approach.

“Oh good, you showed up after all. Was starting to think you had died,” Dmitri says, studying a detailed illustration of a bowl of rice.

“Yeah yeah. Sorry I’m late,” Eiffel laughs weakly, his voice sounding even worse than it was last night, “I had to scrounge for change for the bus. But hey, I brought your jacket back! No need to find a place to bury my body this time.”

Eiffel pulls out the chair across Dmitri, and carefully sits, wincing in pain. Dmitri places his menu on the wooden surface of the table, and can’t help but hold his breath in shock when he finally looks at Eiffel.

“You look disgusting,” he says. The bruises around Eiffel’s face and neck have started purpling, and he has deep bags under his eyes. His hair is a greasy mess, and his nose is red and running. He’s wearing Dmitri’s jacket, but underneath that, has a blue hospital blanket wrapped around his bandaged torso as a makeshift shirt, and the same scrub bottoms he left the hospital in.

“Always a charmer, aren’t you? Yeah I had more trouble than I thought I would finding a place to crash,” Eiffel says, opening his menu. Every movement he makes is stiff and limited, and Dmitri imagines him having to walk all the way from the nearest bus stop, two blocks away, to here.

“So. . . did you choose to stay at hospital?”

“And rack up more debt? No way, José.” Eiffel brings the menu unnecessarily close to his face, squints, then moves the menu so it’s elbow length away.

“Where did you sleep, then?”

Still curiously inspecting the menu as if he were reading a foreign language, Eiffel says, “I stayed at the bus stop outside the hospital, but to be honest, I didn’t do much sleeping.”

Dmitri gapes at the man, so obviously focused on the menu, he doesn’t even know Dmitri is staring at him.

“Man,” Eiffel mutters to himself, “why did they write their whole menu in italics?”

“You are telling me, you spent night outside. In November. In Washington state. _Right after having surgery?”_ Dmitri’s voice raises a little toward the end, and out of the corner of his eye he catches a few restaurant patrons give him a glance.

“Yeah. That really sucked. I’m tired A-F honestly, and I think my stitches are frostbitten,” he shrugs as much as his injuries allow him to, “but it’s cool. Plenty of people have gone through worse. Besides, I was right next to the hospital, in case anything went horribly wrong.”

“I can afford to have let you stay overnight in hospital, you know.”

Eiffel rolls his eyes, “That’s great, Mr. Gates. I, on the other hand, _cannot_ afford that.”

The waiter comes by then, notebook in hand and ready to take their order.

Dmitri breaks his worried scowl toward Eiffel and says, “I will have Keow-Wan-Gai.” He watches the waiter scribble circles on his notepad, vigorously shake the pen with obvious frustration, then scribble some more before writing the order down. The waiter looks to Eiffel expectantly.

It takes a moment for him to catch on that he’s supposed to order. “Oh! Just water, please,” he says, smiling up at the waiter.

“Okay, and drink for you, sir?” He asks Dmitri.

“Thai Ice Tea. And he _is_ going to order something.”

“Okay, I will be back with drinks, and to take order.” The waiter says, folding his notebook and turning to walk away.

“Actually man, it’s alright--”

“Nyet. When was last time you ate? In hospital last night?” He ignores the thought at the back of his head telling him, _you’re one to talk._

Eiffel shakes his head, and shoots him a furious look, “Listen man, I’m not like you. I don’t have any money! That’s what we’re here to discuss, right? How fucking broke I am? How I have to have some white-knight stranger pay my medical bills for me?” Eiffel can’t raise his voice very high, considering how hoarse it is, but he damn sure tries.

Dmitri practically growls through grit teeth, trying to keep his voice low, “I will pay for your lunch, idiot!”

“And what,” Eiffel huffs, attempting and failing at crossing his arms over his chest, “owe you _more_ money later?”

“No! Do not insult me. I know you are poor, why would I offer lunch if I was not willing to pay for it as treat?”

They maintain angry, prolonged eye contact, not even broken when the waiter returns and sets down their drinks.

“He will have what I am having.” Dmitri says, continuing to glare into Eiffel’s eyes. The waiter takes their menus and speedwalks away, like he wants to get away from the scene as fast as possible.

They hold eye-contact for another two minutes, before Dmitri resigns and looks down to stir his tea. Thank god, too. Frankly, Eiffel’s eyebrows were starting to get sore from furrowing so hard. Eiffel relaxes, and watches Dmitri’s tea change from three separate layers of different colors, to one murky orange mixture.

“Hey,” Eiffel says, voice a hoarse whisper, while Dmitri is taking a sip through his straw. Dmitri, still sipping from the straw, looks up at Eiffel through long, surprisingly lovely eye-lashes. Flustered, Eiffel looks away from him, and chooses to watch the beginnings of a light drizzle lightly soak the sidewalk, and all of the pedestrians passing by.

“I, uh,” he continues, “I’m sorry. About getting angry. I’m really tired, and stressed, and I’m not thinking straight.”

Dmitri stops sipping his drink, and replies, “Good. Should be sorry.” Obviously he isn’t being serious, as evident by the small smile on his face.

Nervously, Eiffel tries to change the subject, “So. . . That drink looks pretty good!”

“Da.”

“Why is it orange? Is it like, orange flavor?”

Dmitri slides the cup across the table, ice cubes rattling against the glass. “Try it.”

Eiffel inspects his expression, trying to determine whether he is joking or not. Dmitri impatiently nods at the glass. Wincing from his injuries, Eiffel leans down and takes a sip from the straw. It is. . . surprisingly sweet. It tastes like a black tea, just pumped with coconut milk and sugar.

“You didn’t strike me as the kinda guy with a sweet-tooth!” Eiffel says with a grin, pushing the glass back to Dmitri.

Dmitri takes another sip, trying not to think of the fact that he and Eiffel just shared a straw. Just then, their waiter returns with their meal. He places a bowl of green curry, and a plate of white rice, in front of each man, and a glass of ice water in front of Eiffel.

Gesturing to the nearly-empty glass, he asks Dmitri if he’d like a refill. Dmitri nods yes. The waiter grabs his glass and walks away.

Using a soup spoon, Dmitri scoops up a few spoons of rice and dumps them into his bowl of curry. Watching him, Eiffel follows suit. Eiffel takes a huge bite of curry, before gulping down his water to combat the unexpectedly spicy taste.

The waiter returns with Dmitri’s refill. Between sips from his tea, Dmitri asks, “Where are you sleeping tonight?”

Eiffel chews on a piece of tofu thoughtfully, before answering, “Not sure. I’d call my ex, but I don’t know his phone number by heart. I mean. I don’t _want_ to resort to that. But,” he takes another bite of curry, and with a full mouth, he continues, “but I _could_ do that.”

At the mention of an ex-lover referred to with “his,” pronouns, Dmitri’s heart leaps. He starts ripping apart a napkin.

“Other than at ex’s house,” Dmitri says, organizing the napkin shreds into three piles, “do you have anywhere else you could spend night?”

Between hurried bites of curry, and big sips of water, Eiffel says, “I don’t know, man. I’m sure I can find a place if I beg someone hard enough.”

He must’ve been hungrier than he let on, because when Dmitri looks back up from his piles of napkin pieces, all three of Eiffel’s dishes are empty, and he’s licking the curry bowl clean.

Dmitri opens his mouth to speak, but before he can say anything, Eiffel bursts, “Hey! Are you gonna finish your curry? If not, I know a guy who’s willing to take care of it for you.”

“Da, just let me take few bites first.” While the thought of food makes him overwhelmingly nauseous, and honestly kind of sweaty, he knows if he doesn’t eat something he’ll only feel worse later.

Pushing through the nausea, Dmitri takes a few spoonfuls. The food tastes amazing, of course. Despite this, Dmitri’s stomach protests, so he has to stop.

Though thoroughly disgusted, Dmitri is proud of himself for eating, he pushes the bowl over to Eiffel. There’s nearly a full serving still left in the bowl, and Eiffel viciously eats it all in under two minutes. Meanwhile, Dmitri sips his tea and watches with amusement.

When Eiffel is finished, Dmitri clears his throat and calmly says, “Eiffel, if you would like, you can sleep with me tonight.”

They both still, and time seems to stop. Maybe it’s the sudden pounding of panicked blood rushing between his ears drowning out any noise, but if Dmitri didn’t know better he’d think that the restaurant, no, the whole world, had gone silent as stone in that moment.

“In my bed!” Dmitri nervously blurts, starting to feel his face heat up.

“Uhhh. . .”

“At my house! I mean, I will sleep on couch, you sleep in my bed!” Dmitri, nervously fumbling over his words, shoves his face into his hands, trying to escape the situation. If he dissociates hard enough, he reasons, maybe he will actually fade from existence altogether.

Laughing, Eiffel attempts to reach across the table to pat Dmitri’s head, his laughter is cut short with a gasp of pain. He retracts his arm, “Okay,” he rasps, “sounds like a sweet deal to me.”

A whole three, painstakingly long minutes, pass before the beating in Dmitri’s head and chest quiets. Finally, he lowers his shaking hands. He tries composing himself, to maintain any sort of detached professionalism he still possesses. Looking Eiffel in the eye, he says, “Good. Will hail taxi to take us to my house after I pay bill.” Normally he’d walk, but all this socialization has drained him far too much to even consider trying to travel that far by foot. Also, in his condition, Eiffel shouldn’t be walking any distances further than ten yards.

“Radical, can I get dessert?”

“No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to add more to this chapter, but it's already almost 2000 words rip


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DICKS WARNING: Mama Fulmi, avert your eyes

The taxi comes to a stop beside the sidewalk in front of the stairwell entrance to Dmitri’s apartment. Dmitri pays and tips the driver, before opening the passenger door and stepping out, swinging the door shut behind him. Waiting for Eiffel to exit as well, he shoves his hands in his pockets and turns to gaze at the misty, shale-colored clouds, slowly passing overhead. He ponders a definite meaning of beauty.

Can there be a true definition of beauty? What one considers beautiful, another may consider unremarkably mundane.

The overcast sky, a textured slate of greys and whites, is something Dmitri considers beautiful. However, the majority of people think it “gloomy,” and prefer a clear, blue sky. Clear skies are boring, in Dmitri’s opinion.

Is beauty objective, or subjective? A reasonable enough question, one would immediately think that beauty is subjective: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Some people think overcast is beautiful, others don't.

But, how can such large portions of the population agree 100% that certain things are beautiful? Starry night skies, sunsets, the moon. These are considered works of beauty, anyone to say otherwise is a madman.

Perhaps it is the case that some things _are_ objectively beautiful, while others have more freedom and subjectivity in their beauty. If so, then what differentiates between what is objectively beautiful, and what is subjectively beautiful?

Are structures of objective beauty cosmological objects, hardwired into our brains from the stardust in our blood? If so, would the evolutionary purpose of finding such structures beautiful simply a longing to go home, to the vast universe our elementary particles originated from?

Eiffel’s taking his damn sweet time getting out of the taxi.

Dmitri diverts his gaze from the sky, to the sight of Eiffel struggling--stiff and slow--to move his legs far enough from behind the passenger seat, to the outside of the car. His face is scrunched in pain and frustration, the maneuver must pull on his injuries too hard.

Once he realizes, Dmitri is quick to help. He swoops down and wraps an arm around Eiffel’s back. Carefully, he helps Eiffel out of the car and onto the sidewalk. He regrets tipping the taxi driver, bastard should have said something.

“Are you okay?” Pulling away from Eiffel, Dmitri asks over the sound of the taxi’s engine rumbling to life.

A little winded, Eiffel answers, “Yeah, yeah I’m good. _Whew!_ That was embarrassing.”

Dmitri leads him a few steps toward the entrance, watching Eiffel attentively and making sure he’s steady on his feet. He watches as Eiffel’s face changes from concentration on walking, to sheer horror. Dmitri follows his gaze, and his eyes land on the impending flight of stairs.

“Ah. Yes. That.”

“Please tell me there’s an elevator.”

“Sadly, no.”

“Okay,” Eiffel groans, pouting like an angry three-year-old. Determined, he takes a step up, then another. Each step makes his abdomen feel kind of like it’s being stabbed about a thousand times. He clenches the handrail with one hand, and presses the other against his bandaged torso to try and dull the pain. Dmitri watches from behind, and can obviously tell that Eiffel is struggling by his stiff and jerky movements.

By the third step, Eiffel has to stop and take a moment to breathe. Dmitri takes the three steps up, and stands beside him.

Placing a hand on his shoulder, Dmitri asks, “Would you like me to. . .”

“Nah!” Eiffel interrupts, “I totally got this!” He grins at Dmitri, despite looking very much like he does not, in fact, totally got this.

Dmitri stands to the side and watches as Eiffel takes a big, confident step. And he watches the aftermath, as Eiffel doubles over, groaning.

Dmitri puts his hands on his hips and ‘tsks,’ shaking his head disapprovingly. As if he were scolding a small child, he says, “Eiffel, you obviously cannot make next eight steps on your own.”

“But,” Eiffel protests between strenuous pants, “I’m almost-”

“No.” Dmitri wraps one arm around Eiffel’s lower back, and grabs Eiffel’s hand with his other, “Surely you will die before you get to top step.”

Dmitri stares at his and Eiffel’s shoes, shuffling up one step at a time. He tries desperately to ignore the way Eiffel’s hand fits with his, like he were a puzzle missing a piece this whole time and didn’t even know it. On a particularly hard step up, Eiffel squeezes Dmitri’s hand, and Dmitri has to blame the butterflies in his stomach on his recently poor appetite.

Once they finally make it up top, both of them are nauseous for two entirely different reasons.

Dmitri unlocks the door while, leaning on the brick wall beside him, Eiffel tries to catch his breath.

While Dmitri removes his shoes, and mutters that Eiffel do the same, Eiffel takes a moment to look around. The front door opens to a carpeted living room, lit by overcast daylight through a sliding glass door. The sliding glass door seems to lead out to a small patio.

Dmitri takes off his coat, and carelessly tosses it and his shoes into an already-opened closet left of the front door. Eiffel does the same, but out of fearful politeness from being inside someone else's house, awkwardly hangs up the coat Dmitri lent him on a hanger, and places his shoes beside each other on the floor of the closet. He sucks in a sharp breath while bending back up, and feels a sudden dizzying sensation.

Turning the corner to see the other half of the living room, Eiffel notices a bookcase, stacked to the top with books, on the back wall that leads into a hallway. In the living room there is a three-seat dark grey couch, on top of which, Dmitri lies face down. Beside the couch is a wooden end table with keys, a tissue box, and two empty mugs sitting atop it.

But. . . That’s it. No pictures on the walls, no decorations, no coffee table, no television. Eiffel hasn’t seen the rest of the house, but he’s guessing it won’t be much different.

“Nice apartment,” Eiffel says, taking a few steps toward the sliding glass door to peek outside, “but we seriously gotta get you some decorations, babe.”

From the couch, he hears a muffled, “Do not call me that.”

Eiffel doesn’t say anything else, unsure of what the social climate of this apartment is. Is he allowed to take it upon himself to look around? Is he allowed to sit down? Is he allowed to breathe?

After a minute of standing and awkwardly looking around in silence, Eiffel asks, “Hey, do you have a bathroom?”

Dmitri has to gather the energy to speak, before turning his head so his voice won’t be muffled by the couch cushion. “No.”

“You… you don’t?”

Dmitri sighs, and begins mentally preparing to sit up.

Once sat up, in a tired, impatient voice he says, “Was only joking. Bathroom is down the hall, last door on left.”

“Alright, sweet,” Eiffel begins to walk down the hall, but then stops, “uh, not to like, overstep boundaries or whatever. But like, do you have any clothes I can wear? Not that scrubs aren’t totally radical or anything.”

An image of Eiffel wearing his clothes comes into Dmitri’s head. With his hands pressed into the tops of his knees, he pushes passed the fatigue to stand up.

“Da. I will bring clothes to bathroom,” he gives Eiffel’s body a once-over, and makes a disgusted face. “And I will bring towel.”

Eiffel laughs, “thanks pal, but I don’t think I can shower with these bandages.”

“Please, try. Do not want you reeking up whole apartment.”

 

After digging around in his closet for a few minutes, Dmitri finds a navy blue hoodie, and a pair of loose grey sweatpants for Eiffel to wear. He places them, unfolded and bunched up, on the dresser in his closet, and starts looking for pajamas to wear himself.

He finds a black long sleeve shirt, and his favorite pajama bottoms--a pair of dark blue flannel. After changing, he picks up the clothes for Eiffel and starts walking toward his bedroom door, before realizing he doesn’t have any boxers for Eiffel. The trauma team destroyed his. And sharing underwear is too weird.

He shrugs and continues walking, oh well.

Before going to the bathroom, Dmitri stops in his small laundry room-slash-linen closet to grab a towel.

He knocks on the door the bathroom, the clothes and towel in his other hand.

“Yeah?” Eiffel calls from inside.

“Clothes and towel are sitting outside door.” He says, placing them down and turning away, his bare feet padding against the carpet as he makes his way back to the living room.

He falls into the couch, letting the cushions catch him. Closing his eyes, he ponders the philosophy of beauty once again.

What makes something beautiful? Is something beautiful because it inspires pleasure, or is something pleasing to look at because it is beautiful? The chicken or the egg, and all that.

Perhaps what makes beauty, is mathematical purity. If something has a particular mathematical ratio, it fits into the “objectively beautiful” category. The Fibonacci Sequence is an example of a mathematical ratio that is found in many beautiful forms: Seashells, flowers, trees, galaxies, hurricanes. Many artists structure their works to replicate mathematical ratios, to attain beauty in their artwork.

Yes, mathematical patterns, that must be the solution to the question of objective beauty versus subjective beauty. Subjective beauty is in everything, but objective beauty, while rarer, can be found in mathematical purity.

 

He opens his eyes and gasps, flinching back from Eiffel’s face hovering inches above his face.

Eiffel laughs, leaning back up, “Sorry to startle you! I would’ve let you sleep but man, I’m starving. Got any chow?”

Dmitri sits up, rubbing his eyes. The room is significantly darker, lit now by just the light in the hallway. Checking his watch, he realizes he must have been asleep for a couple hours.

“There is not much. Help yourself to anything you can find.”

“Alright sick, I’ll go see whatch’ya have.” Dmitri watches Eiffel’s back as he walks toward the kitchen. The hoodie fits him very well, the sweatpants, however are a bit baggy, and sag down to just above his hips.

Dmitri leans his head back into the cushion behind him and closes his eyes, listening to Eiffel rummage around in the kitchen. He’s. . . muttering to himself. . . Dmitri can’t make out the words.

Eiffel returns a moment later, and Dmitri feels a weight drop on the cushion furthest from him. He opens his eyes and looks to Eiffel, eating a bowl of ramen noodles. In his lap, another bowl of noodles, steam rising off it. Also in his lap, is the outline of a package not really well hidden by the sweatpants.

Eiffel places his bowl on the end table, scooting the empty mugs over to make room. He hands the bowl in his lap to Dmitri, “I made you some too, you didn’t eat much at the Chai place.”

“Thai place,” Dmitri corrects, “And. . . Thank you,” he sets the bowl in own lap, but doesn’t move to eat it.

“You were right,” Eiffel says, slurping on a mouthful of noodles. Dmitri switches between glancing at his face, and his crotch, hoping Eiffel is too preoccupied with eating to notice. “You don’t really have anything to eat.”

Eiffel lifts his bowl, drinking down the broth. Dmitri takes this moment to blatantly stare at his package. He’s only ever seen other men’s penises online, but he’s gotta admit, Eiffel has a bulge worthy of many praises. He might even have the greatest bulge in the world. Dmitri maneuvers the ramen bowl sitting in his lap to cover his own filling crotch.

Dmitri has to quickly avert his gaze once Eiffel lowers the bowl from his face. He chooses to look at a spiderweb in the far corner of the room.

“We’re gonna have to go grocery shopping, babe. And I’ve gotta buy some underwear.”

Dmitri clenches his jaw, and grits out, “Do. Not. Call. Me. That.” Eiffel must know he finds him attractive, and is mocking him.

“Sorry, I just think it’s funny. Y’know, like, ‘two guys sitting on a couch three feet apart cause they’re Not-Gay’ kinda funny.”

Dmitri gives him a blank stare, “I do not understand.”

“It’s alright, just a meme. Hey, are you gonna eat your ramen?”

Dmitri, no longer sporting a halfy, hands him the bowl, and stands up.

“Am going to take shower. Were you able to with bandages?”

“Kinda, I sponge-bathed.”

“Good. Bedroom is that door,” Dmitri points at a dark wooden door in the hallway, “You will sleep there tonight.”

Eiffel winks and says, “Will you be joining me?”

“No. You look like bed-hog. I will be sleeping on couch,” He says, walking down the hallway. How dare Eiffel openly mock him like this.

 

Dmitri showers for close to an hour. Half of it spent sitting on the bathtub floor disassociating, the other half, spent jerking off to the thought of an anonymous man with a beautiful package.

 

When he leaves the bathroom, hair dripping and skin pink from the hot water, Eiffel is gone, as are all the dishes that were sitting on the end table. Dmitri goes into the laundry-linen room and grabs a spare blanket, turning off the hallway light as he makes his way back over to the couch.

He drops down onto the couch and drapes the blanket over himself.

Eiffel must have a package of perfect mathematical ratios, he concludes, because it’s perfection compares to that of an overcast sky.

He closes his eyes, and lets sleep take him.


	6. Chapter 6

White sunbeams filtering through the sliding glass door glare into Dmitri’s face, forcibly pulling him from a dreamless sleep. He squints, trying to block the oppressive light, and turns to dig himself as deep as he bodily can into the crevice of the couch, mushing his face into the cushions to block it out.

Immediately, he falls back asleep.

 

He wakes up again with the urgent need to piss. Rolling out of The Crevice, he squints at his watch. It’s only 10:30. The Great Oppressor has risen higher than when it was the first time he woke up, and is no longer pointed as directly into his window.

Not even attempting to gather the energy to stand up, Dmitri weighs the pros and cons of not pissing and just falling back asleep. On one hand, he may piss all over his couch. On the other hand, he gets to sleep longer. Curling under his blanket and shoving his face back into the couch cushion, he decides to take his chances.

 

By the time he wakes up again, he has an _extreme_ need to piss, to the point where procrastination is no longer an option. Feeling completely un-rested, like he hasn’t slept in over a week, he forces his fatigued body to roll off the couch. Like a zombie, he groggily sways from one foot to the next as he makes his way down the hall to his bathroom.

Not even bothering to turn on the light, Dmitri flips up the toilet seat and starts going, eyes closed and head lolling to the side like he were going to fall asleep standing right there.

He drops himself back into his pants, doesn’t flush, nor washes his hands, and with his eyes still closed, drags his feet back to the couch by muscle memory. He full-body flops back onto the couch, bouncing a little on the impact, and succumbs to sleep once again.

 

A car alarm in one of the parallel parking spaces outside wakes him up. Staring at the ceiling, he passively listens to the regular metronome of the screeching alarm, muffled by layers of wall and insulation. He notices a rhythm in the alarm, a small predictable comfort in what is usually a modern annoyance.

A minute passes, before the rhythm is finally silenced by the owner of the car.

Dmitri continues staring at the ceiling, and considers whether or not he should go back to sleep. He checks his watch: 12:35. Turning back to face the couch cushions, for lack of having something better to do, he chooses to try falling asleep again.

He just barely begins to slip back into unconsciousness when his eyes shoot open. He _does_ have something better to do, he realises, forcing himself to roll off the couch once again. Stretching the stiffness out of his back, he saunters over his bedroom, feet shuffling on the carpet while he walks.

Very quietly, he knocks twice on the wooden door. He waits a moment, listening for a response, before turning the doorknob. He pushes the door open slowly, flinching at the loud creaking sound it creates.

Eiffel, sleeping on his bed, is undisturbed by the noise, thankfully. His chest rises and lowers slightly, and Dmitri finds himself mesmerized by the movement. Eiffel’s breath is like a calm sea of waves, fighting Earth’s gravity to reach the moon, only to be thrusted back down again, unable to escape Earth’s controlling embrace. Dmitri shakes the thought out of his head--he hates the ocean.

He steps back out of the bedroom, and quietly closes the door behind him.

Well, he’s up already, might as well stay up.

 

Nothing sounds appetizing, but he knows he needs to eat _something._ Dmitri eyes a half-empty gallon of milk, three days old past the expiration date. On the shelf below the milk is a bag of wilted spinach, two green apples, and a container of sour cream. Otherwise, the fridge is empty.

Checking the pantry he finds a box containing a single serving of cheerios, the heel of a loaf of bread in a bag, and a large can of pumpkin puree. He has no idea where the pumpkin puree came from, or why he ever thought it was a good idea to purchase it.

As if expecting to see food he may have missed on his first sweep, he opens the fridge again. He closes it, walks in a circle around his kitchen, then checks the fridge again _just in case._

Running his fingers through his hair, he sighs, and grabs one of the apples.

 

Dmitri spends two hours laying on his couch watching Ted Talks on his phone, and feels inside him, a hollow stone of self-pity grow larger and larger after each motivational talk watched.

He’s less listening to a Talk, and more using it as white noise while he stares at the spiderweb in the corner, when the bedroom door creaks open. Dmitri hears feet shuffling down the hall, then the bathroom door close. After a minute, the bathroom door opens again.

Dmitri turns to look at Eiffel as he enters the living room from the hall.

“Morning, honey,” Eiffel yawns, sleepy eyes squinted. Above the bandage wrapped around his head, his hair is a wild mess, sticking up in every direction.

“Your voice sounds less disturbing.” Dmitri says, turning off the Ted Talk.

Eiffel sits on the couch beside Dmitri, closer than he was last night, but still much too far for reasons Dmitri can’t figure out, “Thanks, I don’t feel ‘all that and a bag of Fritos,’ but I’m glad my sexy voice is starting to sound less Darth Vader and more Morgan Freeman.”

“You sound nothing like Morgan Freeman.”

“Not _yet._ Wait ‘till my throat makes a full recovery. You’ll see.” He smirks, gesturing to his heavily bruised neck. The bruises on his neck and face are a darker purple than they were yesterday, and are swelling a bit. From his neck, Dmitri allows his gaze to lower, to sneak a glance down at his amazing package, for the sake of appreciation. Nothing else.

“How are your injuries feeling?” Dmitri asks, looking back up.

Eiffel shrugs, “Like shit. I’ve gotta take my meds. Do you mind grabbing them for me? They’re in the inner pocket of the coat you lent me.”

Dmitri nods, and begins gathering the energy to stand. After a moment of concentrating, he wills his legs to move and walks over to the entrance closet.

He fishes the two bottles out of the pocket, not bothering to close the folding closet door on its tracks. One of them a liquid-- Amoxicillin. The other, pills-- Vicodin.

“You need food with these,” Dmitri says, handing the bottles to Eiffel. Their fingers brush as Eiffel grabs the bottles from him, and Dmitri’s heart jumps. His fingers tingle where Eiffel’s touched them.

“Yeah,” Eiffel says, “I saw some cereal, can I have that?”

“Milk is expired.”

“. . . How expired?”

“Three days.”

“I’ll take my chances. Afterall, what’s life without a little risk?”

Dmitri rolls his eyes and starts walking toward the kitchen to pour Eiffel a bowl of cereal.

He returns, bowl of cereal in one hand, glass of water in the other, and places both on the end table.

“Thanks!” Eiffel says, reaching over to grab the water. Dmitri sits as farthest away as he can on the couch, pressed up against the arm with his legs crossed.

Eiffel swallows his dosage of Vicodin and a gulp of water, then does the same for the Amoxicillin. He places the now empty glass of water on the end table, then starts eating his cereal.

Dmitri, idly scrolling on his phone, can feel Eiffel looking at him. He squirms in his seat a little.

Through a mouthful of cereal, Eiffel says, “The way you sit is cute.” Dmitri can feel his face heat up, and he uncrosses his legs, choosing to manspread a little instead.

“We need to discuss your debt to me.” Dmitri says, continuing to scroll on his phone.

Eiffel sighs, and eats another few spoons of cereal. “Alright,” he says, voice low.

Dmitri puts his phone down. “You have consultation tomorrow, we can discuss accurate numbers with hospital then. For now, let us say you owe me approximately 9,000 dollars. How do you plan to pay me back?”

At hearing the amount he owes, Eiffel slumps into the couch. “Well. . . I can give you payments over time, if that’s cool. My job is a little sporadic and the money changes with the market, but I generally make between fifteen-hundred and four grand a month.”

Dmitri squints quizzically at him, “What do you do for work?”

“I’m a freelancer.” He says, smiling reassuringly at Dmitri. “Depending on my living situation in the next few months, and how much I’ll need for rent, I’ll be able to pay you back over the course of a year maybe?”

Dmitri’s heart sinks. He doesn’t have a year.

“What if you. . . did not have to pay rent?”

Eiffel laughs, “Well, in this magical rent-less world, I might be able to pay you back in a few months.”

Dmitri considers this.

“Would you like. . . to stay here? Until you pay me back, that is.”

Eiffel looks into his lap, and thinks seriously for a long moment. He takes another bite of cereal.

“Why?” He finally asks, looking up at Dmitri.

Dmitri doesn’t want to think about how he’s already grown so fond of Eiffel. He doesn’t want to think of how even though they only met a few days ago, Dmitri can’t imagine the rest of his short life without him.

“I do not want to die with debts owed to me. The sooner you can pay me back, the better.”

Eiffel nervously shifts his eyes away from him, “Oh. . . are you. . . dying soon?”

“Da.”

The room is silent, save for muffled city sounds outside, for a long while. Eiffel, tense, stares at the floor. Dmitri goes back to scrolling on his phone.

“Do you mind me asking, you know. What you’re dying from?” Eiffel says, voice trepidatious and quiet.

“Am sick.”

“Oh.” Eiffel says, voice almost a low whisper, “I’m sorry to hear that.” Dmitri glances at his face. Eiffel, still unwilling to look up from the floor, has an expression of dread, his grief practically palpable. Dmitri doesn’t understand how Eiffel could feel sad for him, he barely knows him.

They sit in silence.

After twenty minutes, Dmitri looks up from his email inbox on his phone. Eiffel is conked out, sleeping sitting up.

Dmitri starts to get up, slowly, as not to wake him. He has to channel all his self-restraint to withhold from ruffling Eiffel’s wild hair as he passes him on the way to his bedroom.

He changes into his best pair of jeans, then a maroon button up, and a black cardigan. Throwing his pajamas into a pile on the floor, he grabs a notebook and pencil off his desk before exiting the bedroom.

Dmitri stands next to Eiffel, looking at him like he were studying a puzzle. Debating the least offensive way to wake him up, Dmitri is torn between nudging his foot, patting his shoulder, or, the option he, like before, inexplicably and desperately wants to do: Ruffle his hair. He decides to pat his shoulder, an option not as cold as nudging his foot, or not as forwardly affectionate as hair-ruffling.

He does so, patting twice. Eiffel wakes with a start, “wH- Huh?”

“Am going grocery shopping.” Dmitri says, reaching the notebook and pencil out to hand to Eiffel, “Write what you want to eat.”

Eiffel eyes the notebook in Dmitri’s hand, then rests his head back down on the cushion, closing his eyes. “Macaroni,” he mutters.

“Macaroni.”

“Mmmhhmm."

 

Dmitri gently kicks the front door closed behind him, and lugs the bags of groceries over to the kitchen, passing by Eiffel’s sleeping body laying curled up on the couch. He was only out for an hour, but just the trip to the store has exhausted any energy reserves Dmitri had for the day. He sets the grocery bags on the kitchen floor. Immediately, he puts away the perishables. Once the cold food is put away, he makes his way over to the living room.

Dmitri drops to his knees, then lays on his stomach on the carpet parallel to Eiffel sleeping on the couch, and passes out.

 

He wakes up to fingers combing through his hair, but doesn’t stir or open his eyes. He stills as much as he can, pretending to sleep while Eiffel’s fingers leave tingling trails over his scalp. Eiffel lightly scrapes his nails, and Dmitri has to stop himself from shuddering.

This is it. He’d died and gone to heaven. He’s more content than he’s ever been, and probably ever will be.

Eiffel pets his hair for some time, Dmitri relishing every blissful second of it. When Eiffel pulls his hand away, Dmitri has to resist verbalizing the whine that creeps up from the back of his throat.

Dmitri opens his eyes and looks up. Eiffel is lying on the couch still, cheek mushed into the cushion below him. Pushing himself to sit up from the carpet, Dmitri finds himself level with Eiffel, his face just inches away.

They make eye contact, and Dmitri feels his face heat up. They’re so _close_ and if Dmitri wanted to he could just lean in and--

“Goodmorning,” Eiffel says, giving Dmitri a soft smile.

Blushing, Dmitri checks his watch, “Is seven in the evening.”

Eiffel reaches up and boops Dmitri’s nose with his fingertip. “My stomach is making the rumblies that only macaroni will satisfy,” he says, dropping his hand from Dmitri’s nose, to his shoulder. “Please tell me you bought me some cheesy mac-macs, baby boy.”

Flustered, Dmitri stutters out, “Ah, I. I did buy macaroni, da. Among other things.”

Eiffel’s face lights up like a ray of sunshine as he pushes himself to sit up. He groans from the pain, but his smile doesn’t falter.

 

Dmitri doesn’t own a formal dining table, so they eat their macaroni sitting at the small round table out on his patio. Dmitri doesn’t so much as eat, as roll around an old cigarette butt under his finger and watch Eiffel inhale his food.

Licking his fork clean, Eiffel notices Dmitri hasn’t touched his macaroni. “You don’t eat a lot,” he says.

Dmitri looks out at the city streets below. “Nyet. I don’t.” A ghost of his breath dissipates into the winter air.

“Why not?”

“Am just not hungry.”

Eiffel is quiet for a moment. Sounding sadly disbelieving he asks, “Because you’re sick?”

“Da.”

 

Once inside, Eiffel takes the dishes to rinse out and put in the dishwasher, while Dmitri searches through one of the grocery bags he brought in earlier.

“Here,” he says as Eiffel finishes up loading the dishwasher. He hands Eiffel a plastic rectangular package.

“Oh thanks! I’m more of a boxers kinda guy, but boxer-briefs are cool too.” He inspects the package. It’s a pack of 6, basic solid colors. “I like the orange ones, they’ll make my ass look _so cute.”_

While Eiffel is busy looking at the boxer-briefs, Dmitri takes one last chance to admire Eiffel’s freeballing bulge. Never again, will Dmitri get to see that amazing bulge unbound by the confines of underwear. With great remorse, he looks up before Eiffel can catch him staring.

“I also bought you toothbrush and deodorant. You need it.”

Eiffel gasps, scandalized, “Dmitri! Tell me how you really feel!”

Dmitri stares at him, expression blank. “I do not feel anything.” A moment of awkward silence passes.

“No, like. It’s a joke, like, it’s supposed to mean. . . Like you were implying that I smell bad.”

“Was not implying anything. I am entirely open about how bad I think you smell.”

Eiffel chokes on air. He mentally scrambles to find the perfect comeback, when Dmitri turns on his heel, and begins walking away from him.

“Am going to sleep, now.” He hears from around the corner, “Do not stand there gaping like fish for too long. Turn off lights when you are done.”

Dmitri peeks his head around the wall, “Oh, and do not forget to sponge bathe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a fluffier chapter, I expect the next few will be about the same amounts of fluff, if that's what you're into.  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Very NSFW Warning. You're gonna wanna hide in the bathroom for this one, Fulmi

 

They arrive half an hour late. Dmitri is responsible, as he pressed ‘snooze’ about twenty-two times before actually managing to roll off the couch.

Bleary-eyed and groggy, both men sit, half asleep in the waiting room.

Cheek pressed into his fist, Dmitri is dozing off when he feels Eiffel nudge his shoulder. “Hey, they’re calling for a Mr. Gregory Volodin. Is that me?”

“Da.” Dmitri grumbles, eyes still closed, “Did not know name. Thought you looked like a ‘Gregory.’”

Eiffel giggles to himself, pushing himself out of the seat. He nudges Dmitri a few more times, trying to wake him. In response, Dmitri slumps his head forward, bowing over his lap, and falls asleep again.

“C’mon, Dmitri.” Eiffel mutters, grabbing Dmitri’s hand and pulling him up. The strain yanks on his injuries, and he can’t help but whimper a little. In his living-dead state, however, Dmitri doesn’t notice Eiffel’s pain and simply allows himself to be pulled.

Hand-in-hand, the two walk over to the nurse standing in the doorway entrance, sleepy Eiffel leading an even sleepier Dmitri. She gives them a once-over.

“Gregory Volodin?” She asks, smiling.

Dmitri leans practically his full weight into Eiffel’s side, resting his head on his shoulder. “Just Greg is fine.”

“Alright Greg, come this way.”

She leads them down a corridor, Eiffel having to drag Dmitri the whole way. They stop in front of a door, which the nurse opens and gestures for Eiffel and Dmitri to enter. Eiffel drops Dmitri into a chair in the corner, and sits himself down on the paper-covered exam bed, less than an arm's-length from the chair.

“Dr. Schultz will be with you in a few minutes.” She says, closing the door behind her once she walks away.

 

Ten minutes pass before the door opens again. In comes a woman, a coffee in each hand and a clipboard tucked under her arm.

“A little birdy told me you guys need some coffee.” She sings, before actually looking up at the boys. Who are both asleep in their chairs.

“Wow,” she says, “you guys _really_ need some coffee.”

 

“I’m Dr. Schultz, I’ll be running your post-op check up.” She begins explaining while Eiffel takes a few much-needed sips of coffee, grimacing at the hot temperature. “I’ll take a look at your injuries and your stitches, and from there we’ll see if we can remove the bandages permanently. Sound good?”

Eiffel takes a big sip, and nods yes.

She has Eiffel remove the sweater Dmitri lent him, and starts unraveling the bandages wrapped around his abdomen.

“Have you been taking your medication?” She asks, the bandages unraveled enough to reveal his lower abdomen, and the massive light-purple bruise spanning down it.

“Yeah, every morning.” Eiffel flinches a little when she gently begins peeling the bandage wrapped over his first few stitches away.

“Good, and you’ve been resting a lot? Not really straining yourself?”

Eiffel thinks of the first night after leaving the hospital, sitting outside on the bus stop bench, too cold and uncomfortable to fall asleep. The painful two blocks he walked from his departing bus stop to the restaurant. The struggle up Dmitri’s stairs. And going back down the stairs earlier this morning.

“Sure. . . ?” He says, voice trailing off on a high-pitched, unsure note.

Not looking up from the bandages she’s almost finished unwrapping, she shakes her head. “You need to be resting, Gregory.”

“I have been! Really! Once I got to Dmi- to _our_ house, I slept for like sixteen hours straight, no joke.”

“Good, keep it up. And drink lots of fluids.”

Now that the bandages are completely off, she starts to examine his stitches. He has four incision sites: Three smaller ones about two inches long each between two of his upper ribs and his spine, and one larger one about five inches long on one of his lower ribs. He has dissolvable stitches, but they’re far from being broken down.

Dr. Schultz scribbles something onto her clipboard, then examines the bruises extending all down his upper body. With gentle, gloved fingers she maneuvers Eiffel so the bruises are more easily observed. Satisfied, she picks up her clipboard and starts writing.

As she’s writing, Dmitri begins to stir. He cracks an eye open, and for the first time, sees Eiffel’s completely uncovered torso. His injuries are much more extensive than Dmitri thought. Purple bruises, yellowing at the edges, span his entire back, down his right side, and cover a good portion of his stomach as well. At the sight of the gnarly injuries, Dmitri fully awakens, sitting up in his chair.

“Hey! Look who’s up,” Eiffel smiles, warmth radiating from his sheer happiness. He reaches into Dmitri’s lap and puts his hand over his. “How’re you doing, babe?”

Dmitri stares at their hands, Eiffel’s thumb lightly brushing over the back of his. “Tired. I should be asking you same question.”

“I’m alright, right Doc? How’m I doing?”

“You’re doing great! You don’t need these big bulky bandages anymore, just smaller ones to cover your stitches. Let’s check your forehead, now.”

Eiffel looks away from Dmitri to allow the doctor to begin unwrapping his head bandages. But, his thumb doesn’t stop it’s soothing rhythmic motions on the back of Dmitri’s hand.

Butterflies flutter inside Dmitri’s stomach and chest, and he continues to stare at their joined hands, afraid this precious moment of intimacy will end if he looks away.

 

The taxi drops them off in front of the stairwell entrance, and with a toothy smile on his face, Eiffel doesn’t hesitate in grabbing Dmitri’s arm before he even has a chance to offer it.

No longer restricted from the bandages, the walk up, while still incredibly painful and exhausting, is a bit less stiff.

Careful not to press on the stitches on his forehead, Eiffel leans his head into Dmitri’s shoulder while he unlocks the door. Closing his tired eyes, he listens to the rattle of the keys and the lock mechanism click.

Dmitri holds the door open for Eiffel, who sluggishly leans up from Dmitri’s shoulder, kicks off his shoes, and makes a beeline for the couch. Closing the door behind him, Dmitri takes off his own shoes, and follows Eiffel into the living room. Dmitri drops down onto the couch beside him, their thighs brushing. He sinks into the cushions, fatigue making his limbs feel like lead.

They sit there for some time, trying to recover from having to wake up so early. Dmitri checks his watch, it’s only 9:30.

“I am going to go back to sleep.” He says, moving to take off his coat.

“I think you read my mind, man.”

 

Four hours pass before Dmitri wakes up. He pushes himself off the couch, deciding to take a shower.

Quietly, he opens the door to his bedroom, careful not to wake up Eiffel.

Eiffel, he notices, has taken off his sweatpants, and is sleeping spread-eagle on his stomach with the covers kicked down and away.

Dmitri makes two observations. One: His previous statement, about Eiffel being a bed-hog, is proven true. Two: Eiffel’s ass _does_ look cute in the orange boxer briefs. His ass looks perfect, actually. Dmitri ponders the statistical odds that one person could have so many _objectively_ perfect features, because it is simply implausible that Eiffel’s beauty be _subjective to Dmitri._ Because of this, he is starting to question his theory on mathematical ratios defining objective beauty. However, while unlikely, it could be that Eiffel is simply a being composed of multiple, if not purely of, perfect mathematical ratios.

Dmitri tears his eyes away from Eiffel’s ass and quietly walks over to his closet. Searching for something comfortable to wear, Dmitri ponders the likelihood of Eiffel being _so damn perfect._ Perhaps he is a being made entirely in God's image, it would explain why he’s so attractive. Maybe this being, this being made in God’s image, was sent down to Earth on a sacred mission. Something inside Dmitri hopes that if that were the case, that he would get to be part of Eiffel’s sacred mission, if only so he could be around Eiffel a little while longer.

He gathers his clothes into his arms and turns around to look at Eiffel, still sleeping, oblivious to the world.

 _No._ Dmitri decides. No, he is not a being made in God’s image, and he’s _certainly_ not on a sacred mission. He’s too annoying for that.

Then what could possibly make him so damn beautiful? Dmitri ponders this while opening the bedroom door and gently closing it behind him, clothes in hand.

He turns on the shower and strips, balling up his clothes and tossing them on the floor, to be taken care of when he has more energy. He tries to avoid looking at the clothes _already_ all over the floor while he steps into the shower.

While gathering energy to start his shower routine, he faces the rushing stream with his eyes closed, feeling the hot water pelt against his face and run down, listening to the indistinct whispers.

They never say anything in particular, the water whispers, nothing he isn’t already thinking.

Finally, he starts his shower routine.

After washing hair, face, and body in that order, he still has a long while to kill before the hot water runs out.

Bracing himself for the cold air, he steps out of the shower. Feeling awkward and wet, he reaches over to open the cabinet under the sink, quickly pulling out a jar of vaseline. He recedes back under the hot water stream, grateful for the heat.

Turning away from the water, so it’s pelting against his back now, he unscrews the jar, placing it on a ledge on his bathtub. He grabs a generous glob of the vaseline, spreading it evenly over his fingers.

He wraps his hand around his shaft, the vaseline a stunning cold against the warm misty air of the shower. Slowly, he starts pumping, visualizing men with no particular faces or features. Anonymous bringers of pleasure. He imagines different scenarios, trying to figure out which one he’s in the mood for. He imagines one anonymous man sucking him off, then imagines himself sucking someone else. He imagines tying someone up and whipping them. He imagines tying a blindfolded man’s arms behind his back, and fucking him doggy style. _Yes, that’s the one._

His pumps becoming faster, his breathing more raggedy and harder to control, the more he fantasizes of this scenario. Knees beginning to buckle, he has to lean his body against the shower wall to stop himself from slipping. Breathing rapidly, he squeezes his eyes closed, imagining the back of this anonymous man, visualizing his cock thrusting in and out of him. He imagines what the man would be saying. He wants to imagine the man would be _begging_ Dmitri to fuck him faster. However, when his imagination creates this scene, of a man begging for Dmitri’s cock, the voice is Eiffel’s.

Dmitri’s legs buckle completely, and he has to fight to continue standing upright. He imagines the blindfolded, bound man, is Eiffel. The man he’s visualizing pumping his cock in and out of, is Eiffel. The voice, desperately begging for Dmitri to fuck faster, _is Eiffel’s voice._

Dmitri can’t suppress the groan he makes, when he comes harder than he ever has. Leaning all his weight onto the shower wall, his lungs beg for air as he tries to catch his breath. He opens his eyes, and watches his come smear down the wall in front of him.

_Oh no._

_Oh no. What has he done._

He slides onto the shower floor, sitting, leaning his weight against the wall.

He’s _very_ attracted to Eiffel. The beauty he finds in Eiffel, he must admit, must be subjective, then. Subjective to Dmitri. Because he finds him attractive. Fuck.

His mind briefly flashes the lockbox under his bed to him. Rather than letting the thought wash down the drain like his come, he holds onto it a bit longer, entertaining the thought.

While Eiffel is asleep, Dmitri could walk over to the gas station a block away, and use the ATM to withdraw all the money in his savings and checking. He could write a short will, signing his possessions and lease over to Eiffel. He could leave the will and money in an envelope on the end-table.

Then, he could sneak into his bedroom, and quietly slide the box out from under his bed. He could hail a taxi to the outskirts of town, perhaps to a forest edge, where he could walk into the woods. Once he was sure he was somewhere nobody would find him any time soon, he could find a nice rock to sit on, place the box in his lap and unlatch it.

He could load the gun, then cock it. And, with admittedly trembling hands, he’d aim at his temple, and finally, fire. If the shot itself doesn’t kill him, bleeding out would have to do.

Because suicide is much easier to deal with than emotions, he reasons.

He sits on the shower floor until the water runs cold, and even then continues to sit on the floor for another ten minutes, numb to everything, let alone the water temperature.

 

Slumped in his chair, he smokes his third cigarette that hour. The smoke mixes with his winter breath, as he watches the small clouds of white dissipate into the air. It’s raining, but he can’t hear the normally comforting roar of the rain. He’s not connected with reality enough to focus on something such as auditory input.

His entire reality is nothing but a looping thought, repeating over and over again.

_I’m not good enough for him. I’m not good enough for him. I’m not good enough for him._

Emotions are dangerous. Once you acknowledge you have emotions, especially if they pertain to a certain person, then the emotions start to have control over you. It’s better to suppress all emotions, rather than lose control.

Because once you lose control, and you, for instance, develop an affinity for someone, then you suffer. You suffer even more than if you had just suppressed your emotions in the first place. Nothing good comes from romantic love, _especially_ unrequited love. And all love, Dmitri is _certain,_ is unrequited in regards to him. He’s disgusting, he’s a failure, he’s tired, he’s ugly, he’s socially awkward. These things, he is sure of. And he knows someone like him will never be loved by someone like Eiffel.

He sighs, putting out his cigarette butt in the ashtray. Trying with all his might to dissociate even more, he slumps further into his chair, and stares, eyes unfocused and distant, out at the rain.

Focusing his consciousness into a singular, tunneled point leading into a hazy dimension of blurry shapes and delayed, muffled sounds, Dmitri doesn’t notice when the sliding glass door opens.

His ears pick up a distorted _something_ muffled by layers of water, but he doesn’t focus any acknowledgement toward the sound.

It isn’t until he feels a pinch on his ear, that he is violently thrusted back into reality. His body doesn’t react, but his brain experiences an equivalent to mental whiplash.

“You okay?” He hears Eiffel ask. Slowly, he turns his head to face Eiffel, who is bent to eye-level with Dmitri, giving him a look of concern.

He’s slow to respond, still adjusting to being ripped from his disassociated reality so quickly. After receiving only a distant, blank stare as an answer, Eiffel frowns. He pulls Dmitri against him, pressing Dmitri’s head into his chest.

Dmitri feels Eiffel’s chest rumble when he softly asks, “What’s wrong?”

He should push away from Eiffel. He should push him away, give him money for a taxi, and tell him to leave forever.

He doesn’t push him away. Instead, he leans closer into Eiffel, closing his eyes. He listens to the rain, and Eiffel’s breath.


	8. Chapter 8

“Honey I’m home!” Eiffel calls, closing the door behind him. He shuffles off his shoes, and hangs his coat up in the closet, before walking into the living room.

Eiffel begins to feel anxious when he receives no word nor sight of Dmitri.

Yesterday afternoon, when Eiffel found Dmitri in a state of total dissociation on the patio, worried and scared, the best he could do was gently guide Dmitri inside, out of the cold. Eiffel sat them both down on the couch, wrapped up in Dmitri’s blanket, huddled close. He remembers how tense Dmitri felt, leaning his head against his chest, breathing shallowly, unmoving like a deer caught in headlights. After an hour of trying to coax Dmitri into relaxing, cuddling him and petting his hair, he seemed to only grow more stiff and detached.

Eventually he lead Dmitri into the bedroom, where he lied on the bed for the rest of the day, and throughout the night. Eiffel stayed on the couch, checking on him periodically, but Dmitri never said anything to him.

When Eiffel peeked into the bedroom before he left for work, Dmitri was asleep. Most likely, he’s still in there lying in bed.

His socks pad against the carpet as he makes his way through the living room over to the bedroom. He knocks, then listens a moment, waiting for a response.

Upon hearing no response, he opens the door.

Dmitri is lying on his side under the covers, facing the wall opposite of Eiffel, the same position he was in when Eiffel left three hours ago.

“Dmitri?” Eiffel whispers. Dmitri doesn’t answer.

The door creaks as Eiffel gently closes it shut. Huffing out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, he looks at the floor, and frowns.

 

Dmitri lies awake, staring at the ceiling. Through the wall, he can hear Eiffel fixing something in the microwave and talking to himself, but he can’t make out the words.

His mind sends him an unwarranted vision of Eiffel laying in bed with him, cuddling him. Clenching his fists, Dmitri shakes his head, as if literally trying to shake the thought away.

Racking his mind to think of any possible reason that this could be happening to him, Dmitri cycles through all the reasonable theories he knows.

He chooses the Cartesian “Evil Demon Argument” to entertain, as a distraction from the various unwanted ideas, leaving impressions of feelings in places they are not welcome. Dmitri curls into a ball, trying to suppress such an unwanted feeling, butterflies in his stomach.

In René Descartes’ _Meditations On The First Philosophy,_ Descartes states, “I shall then suppose, not that God who is supremely good and the fountain of truth, but some evil genius not less powerful than deceitful, has employed his whole energies in deceiving me; I shall consider that the heavens, the earth, colours, figures, sound, and all other external things are nought but the illusions and dreams of which this genius has availed himself in order to lay traps for my credulity; I shall consider myself as having no hands, no eyes, no flesh, no blood, nor any senses, yet falsely believing myself to possess all these things.”  

This is the “Evil Demon Argument,” one of the three famous Cartesian arguments on doubting the credibility of our senses. Basically Descartes is saying: If there’s a possibility that my existence is not physical, but simply an illusion created by an evil power, deceiving me into believing the world around me is real. Then, there is a possibility this is true.

With said possibility in mind, Dmitri reminds himself, _He’s not real, he’s not real, he’s not real._ The butterflies dissipate, as Dmitri relaxes into a dissociated lull. He’s comforted by the idea that everything in universe, Eiffel included, could just be some cruel trick being played on him.

He lies there for a couple minutes, dazed and detached, floating in hazy clouds, thinking of nothing, because nothing is real.

Even a knock on the door isn’t enough to pull him from his daze.

He watches a yellow slither of light appear on the wall in front of him, growing wider as Eiffel opens the door behind.

“Hey, Dmitri,” Eiffel says, voice above a whisper but quiet yet, “you doing alright?”

Dmitri doesn’t look at him, expecting Eiffel to close the door and walk away, the same way he has every time he’s checked up on him.

He _doesn’t_ expect to feel the bed dip, as Eiffel scoots in next to him. The butterflies return, but only for an instance, Dmitri immediately suppresses them and tries as hard as he can to remember none of this is real.

Eiffel places his hand on his shoulder, so warm and welcoming, and Dmitri finds it hard to fight the butterflies much longer. “I don’t know when the last time you ate was, so I made you some pizza rolls.” Gently, he pushes Dmitri onto his back, so he has to look at Eiffel.

Seeing Eiffel’s concerned face, seeing that he’s genuinely _worried_ about him, breaks Dmitri’s will to fight the butterflies, and they win. Starting in his core they flutter inside him, flowing through his blood up to where Eiffel’s hand is on his shoulder, and circling around in areas where Dmitri can feel heat radiating off of Eiffel’s body.  

Dmitri looks into Eiffel’s eyes, appalled at the level of concern in them. “Why?” He whispers, voice small and meek.

Eiffel raises his eyebrow, like he’s surprised Dmitri would ask such a question. He runs his fingers through Dmitri’s hair. “Because I care about you.”

Dmitri breaks their eye contact, turning his head to look at the wall instead. “Why?” He whispers, even softer this time.

Eiffel thinks for a moment, continuing to pet Dmitri’s hair. “Because,” he finally says, “you deserve to be cared for.”

Nobody's ever told him that before. Dmitri can feel tears welling up, which he tries to will away. Sitting up, he leans against the headboard, still looking away from Eiffel.

Eiffel stops stroking his hair. He reaches up to cup his cheek instead, gently turning Dmitri’s head so he’s looking at him. Looking Dmitri in the eye, Eiffel leans in a little, and Dmitri’s heart starts pounding in his chest. He feels blood rush to his face, and butterflies flutter through his whole body as he nervously anticipates what Eiffel’s about to do.

Eiffel leans in a bit more and they’re so close now, Dmitri swears he can feel Eiffel’s breath on his face. They both still, and stare each other in the eyes.

“So!” Eiffel says, voice cracking. “How ‘bout those pizza rolls?”

Dmitri leans away from Eiffel a bit, and notices Eiffel’s face is just as flushed as his is. He smiles, picking up one of the rolls off the plate in Eiffel’s lap. “Spasibo.”

Once Dmitri eats all the pizza rolls, Eiffel puts the empty plate on the floor beside the bed, and lies down, shimming under the covers. He smirks at Dmitri and pats the space on the mattress beside him, gesturing for Dmitri to lay down next to him.

Dmitri gulps, and with shaking hands, pulls the blanket up to his nose while he moves to lay down. He rests his head on his pillow, and half-hidden under the blanket, looks up at Eiffel.

Eiffel laughs, then murmurs, “You’re so cute.”

Dmitri is grateful the blanket covers most of his face, because he can feel his face heat up again.

“C’mere,” is the only warning he has before Eiffel pulls Dmitri so his head is resting on Eiffel’s chest. He’s not sure if the beating he hears is his own heart, or Eiffel’s. Either way, it doesn’t matter. His whole body is warm and vibrating with not butterflies, but wasps, throwing a wasp rave inside all of his bones.

Eiffel wraps an arm over Dmitri’s back, and tangles his other hand in his hair. “Do you wanna talk about what’s wrong?” He asks, his chest rumbling under Dmitri’s head.

Too nervous to speak, Dmitri mentally repeats over and over: _This isn’t real this isn’t real this isn’t real._ Convincing himself he’s being deceived eases his anxiety about the situation a bit, and he can feel himself relax a little, letting himself melt against Eiffel’s body.

“Is complicated.”

Eiffel laughs, and starts stroking Dmitri’s hair. “Wanna try? I’m a great listener.”

Dmitri sighs, mentally preparing for the upcoming conversation has exhausted him already. Regardless, he wills himself to speak. “I . . . Do not react well to emotions.”

“Like, other people’s emotions? Or, yours?”

“Both.”

“Oh. That sucks. Is this,” Eiffel stills his petting, “is this totally weirding you out?”

It takes a moment for Dmitri to process what Eiffel means by “this.” “No,” he says, with an air of urgency, “no, no. Of course not.” To prove it, he nuzzles closer to Eiffel.

Eiffel smiles, and continues rhythmically stroking Dmitri’s hair. “Good. I’m not weirded out either.”

 

Dmitri wakes up warm, and surprisingly content. Sometime during the night, they had moved so Eiffel was positioned behind him, pressed up against his back. Eiffel’s arm is swung over his middle, holding him close. He closes his eyes and listens to Eiffel’s deep breaths.

He doesn’t know how long he lays there, enjoying being cuddled up next to Eiffel. But, he finds, he’s the most at peace he’s felt in a really long time.

How could a deceptive illusion feel so _right?_ Maybe his true reality is the horrible one, and this reality is not a punishment, but an escape.

He cuddles closer to Eiffel, and feels Eiffel squeeze his stomach. Yes, whether he is being deceived by a demon or not, something like the love he feels cannot exist in a hellish place. A reality with this love is the better option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the gayest shit I've ever written, and I've written stories about two dudes diddling


	9. Chapter 9

 

From the spot on the carpet he is lying on, Dmitri gazes out the sliding glass door and watches grey clouds run on an eastward jetstream, away from the ocean. He doesn’t blame them.

Eiffel’s been gone all morning. He’d left a sticky note on the door to their-- _D_ _mitri’s_ bedroom, which took a few minutes for Dmitri to decipher, the letters jumbled and scrawled like it were written by a second grader just starting to learn English.

The note reads: _"_ _Goodmorning sunshine! Promise I’ll be back by noon, xoxo”_

Dmitri hasn’t done much since reading the note. He picked up his laptop with the intention of getting some work done, but once he dragged his feet into the living room, he realized working took more energy than he actually had, so he sprawled on the carpet instead.

Inside his stomach and chest, has grown the same cold pit he had felt when he was sure he would never see Eiffel again. An empty, gnawing feeling, leaving him open and feeling vulnerable. He’s still not entirely sure what the feeling means, but at the moment he’d give anything to make it go away.

He must be mentally perceiving time “passing slower” because, he’s been checking his watch quite frequently, and it seems the minute hand is under the impression its duty is to crawl, rather than run. With every minute that inches by without Eiffel, it seems the cold hollow feeling grows larger within him.

Waiting for Eiffel to return, watching each second tick by painfully slow, is practically torture. Too depressed to stand and find something to busy himself with, he chooses to mentally stimulate himself to make the time pass faster. The notion makes him huff in amusement, so he decides Time will be the topic on the table for consideration.

After all the research he’s done in his life, both philosophical and mathematical, Dmitri has come to the tentative conclusion that the objective passage of time is merely an illusion.

There was a period in his life when he genuinely believed that time ran in a consistently straight line. The problem is, nobody can truly know for sure how time acts. All we have is theories, and math, but theories and math have been proven wrong before.

Humans have a horrible habit of experiencing time in a linear fashion, it’s the only way the meatbags in our skulls can process it. Because of our bias toward a linear passage of time, we develop theories such as general relativity to explain how time, while seemingly still moving in a linear fashion, changes traveling at extreme speeds and near massive celestial bodies.

We’re looking at time with the wrong angle, Dmitri believes. Because we can only comprehend time linearly, the layman hardly even considers the possibility that time does _not_ move linearly. We have concepts such as “back,” and “forward,” “slower,” and “faster,” when speaking about time, but many people overlook the possibility that there is possibly no change in time but simply, there just “is.” Rather than like a movie playing with a beginning and an end, time could be analogous to a map. All the roads, and twists, and turns, of time, could all be laid out on one non-physical sheet. All of time could be happening all at once, and we just happen to only be capable of processing it linearly. We are just ants on the map, unaware that there is a bigger picture.

Dmitri sighs. The many restrictions of his primal mind frustrates him to no end. Evolution doesn’t care about experiencing the true objective expanse of time. Evolution cares about three things: Eating, sleeping, and fucking.

Just then, the front door opens.

“Hey babe, you up?” Eiffel calls, closing the door shut and gently placing a bag on the floor. Instantly, the cold hollow feeling diminishes, and a new, warm spur of flutters takes its place.

Dmitri turns around and sits up, “Ah, Eiffel!” He says, sounding much too excited for his own liking, “I mi-” He stops himself, choking on his words. He was about to tell Eiffel he _missed him._  That’s much too personal a statement for him to admit. “I mmm-” struggling, Dmitri grasps for a save, “I mmmaybe think you are an idiot.”

“Oh,” Eiffel says, walking over to where Dmitri is sitting on the floor, “that’s not the first time I’ve heard that one. What makes you say that though?” He sits next to Dmitri, smiling at him.

“Is almost six o’ clock, you said you would be back before noon.”

Eiffel grins sheepishly, “Yeah, I kinda lost track of time. Easy to do when you don’t have a phone or a watch. Sorry about that.” He wraps his arms around Dmitri, squeezing him in a tight hug. Arms pinned to his sides, Dmitri freezes, wide-eyed. He manages to return to looking less shocked and relatively normal by the time Eiffel withdraws.

“I’ve got a present, if you’re interested. If not, I totally understand.”

Dmitri raises an eyebrow, “What present?”

Eiffel grins, then spins on his butt and stands, walking over to the entrance to dig in the bag he placed down. From where he is, Dmitri isn’t able to see what he pulls out of it. Eiffel walks back over and drops down next to Dmitri again.

In his hand is a small glass pipe, shimmering blue in the light, and a ziplock bag.

“It’s weeeeeeeeed,” Eiffel sings, smiling.

“Oh. I have never, ah, partaken, before.” Dmitri says, a bit embarrassed about his lack of experience.

“Dude! You live in Washington, how have you not smoked weed before? Is it for, like, personal reasons? Or, you just never got the opportunity to? Or. . .”

“Second one, da, never had chance. Was never interested enough to go out of way.”

“Alright, well, would you like to ‘partake,’ with me?”

Before he can stop it, Dmitri’s mind wanders to alternate implications of what that sentence could mean. He shifts his eyes away from Eiffel, embarrassed at his own dirty thoughts. “Da,” he says, voice threatening to waver, “I will try.”

“Rad!” Eiffel says, jumping up. He grabs Dmitri’s hand and pulls him up with him.

Eiffel slides the glass door open, still holding Dmitri’s hand. The two step out onto the patio, and he slides the door shut behind him. Dmitri lets go of Eiffel’s hand and sits, the metal of the chair cold where it touches his skin. Eiffel ruffles Dmitri’s already messy hair, before sitting in the chair across from him. He sets the bag and pipe on the table between them. Dmitri watches with curious attentiveness as he watches Eiffel unzip the bag and start packing the sticky green leaves into the bowl of the pipe.

“Have you ever smoked out of a pipe like this before at all?” Eiffel asks, finishing packing the bowl.

Still staring down at Eiffel’s hands, and the pipe held within them, Dmitri replies, “Nyet.”

“Alright so, this,” Eiffel points at a small hole in the side of the bowl, “is the carb, you’ll put your finger here while you light it. Uh, you gotta like, it’s kind of like a cigarette, like you have to light the bowl and inhale at the same time. Then, you hold it there for a bit while you inhale, and when you’re almost done, release your finger and keep inhaling.”

Not wanting to show just how overwhelmed and anxious he is, Dmitri nods, trying to look convincing.

Eiffel reaches the pipe out to Dmitri, “Do you wanna go first?”

Dmitri shakes his head no, unable to meet Eiffel in the eye.

“You don’t have to do this if you don’t want dude, seriously, I’m not in the business of forcing someone to try something they don’t wanna do.”

Still looking down at the pipe in Eiffel’s hand, Dmitri says, voice tight and quiet, “No, no, I want to.” Embarrassed, he admits, “Am just nervous, is all.” He looks Eiffel in the eye, finally. “You go first, I will watch.”

“Okey-dokey, artichokey.” Eiffel grabs the lighter Dmitri keeps on the table. He puts the opening to the pipe at his mouth, then like the instructions he gave Dmitri, lit the bowl, covered the carb with his fingertip, and inhaled. He continues inhaling, one long draw, as he unlights the lighter and lifts his finger from the carb.

Putting the pipe down in his lap, he looks up and exhales, the smoke billowing up before spreading into the winter air and disappearing. “See, easy.” He says, winking at Dmitri.

He, once again, reaches the pipe out toward Dmitri. Their fingers brush as Dmitri takes the pipe from Eiffel, and a murder of butterflies take flight in Dmitri’s stomach.

He grabs the lighter, and as he puts the end of the pipe in his mouth, he’s suddenly very aware of the fact that Eiffel’s mouth was on the pipe mere moments ago. Flustered, he shrinks in on himself.

“What’s wrong, darling?”

Dmitri flushes, averting his gaze to his lap. He pulls the pipe away from his mouth. “Am nervous,” he mutters, “I. . . will you please. . . Help me?”

Eiffel smiles, closing his eyes like a content cat. “Totally.”

He scoots out of his chair, and walks around the small table to crouch next to Dmitri.

“Hold the pipe to your mouth, and I’ll light it for you.”

Dmitri nods, putting the pipe to his mouth again. Eiffel takes the lighter and leans in,  _so close_ to Dmitri’s face. He focuses on holding the lighter to the bowl, so he misses the way Dmitri stares at him, wide-eyed and blushing.

“Inhale,” he tells Dmitri as he lights it, holding the tip of his finger to the carb. Dmitri does so, sucking in a deep breath. “Good, keep inhaling.”

He unlights the lighter, and pulls his finger away from the carb. Dmitri continues inhaling, sucking smoke in easier now that the carb’s been released.

Eiffel looks up, and catches Dmitri’s gaze. Looking Eiffel in the eye, while he’s so close to his face, makes Dmitri flustered, and his lungs spasm against the smoke. He coughs, expelling smoke into Eiffel’s face.

Eiffel giggles as Dmitri hacks smoke at him. He reaches up to stroke Dmitri’s hair. “You alright?” He laughs.

Eyes watering, Dmitri nods his head and gives a thumbs up, unable to verbally respond as he continues to cough violently.

“Do you want some water?”

Eyes still watering, and face reddening from both lack of oxygen, and embarrassment, Dmitri shakes his head, before leaning his face into his palms.

Eiffel’s hand is warm against his back as it gently pats him while he finishes coughing. “Yeah, it takes a bit to get used to.”

Eiffel sits back down, and takes another few hits while Dmitri recovers.

Meanwhile, face still mushed into his palms, Dmitri’s head is spinning. Or maybe the ground is spinning. Well, the ground is "spinning," he supposes, he just doesn’t feel it because he’s spinning at the same rate the ground is. He looks back up, and feels a wave of dizziness wash over him. It’s not a bad dizziness by any means, he actually feels like he’s being gently lulled.

Eiffel takes another hit, before holding it out to Dmitri. Looking at him, Dmitri had never really taken the time to notice just how charming Eiffel’s crooked smile is. He reaches for the pipe again, still examining the shape of Eiffel’s perfect, beautiful mouth.

He really wouldn’t mind kissing that perfect mouth, Dmitri thinks as he takes another hit. Normally, the thought would hurl him into a spiral of self-pity and anxiety, just the thought of leaning in for a kiss and being rejected. But for some reason, he feels so relaxed. His mind is clear, so uncluttered, he feels like he really has time to _think,_ rather than trap himself in a loop of worries. He feels like he has time to rationalize, and time to take in the tiny details his mind always seems to blur out in favor of bigger details deemed “more important.”

In fact, he feels like he has _a lot of time._ After his second hit, he places the pipe on the table. For experimental purposes, he checks his watch. 18:05:57.

Looking back up, he finds Eiffel gazing at him, with his perfect crooked smile and his warm, sleepy eyes.

“Am I supposed to be feeling this way?” Dmitri asks. The strange, content dizziness, accompanied with the sudden, sheer amount of extra perceived time he seems to have on his hands, isn’t something he had expected from smoking marijuana.

Eiffel leans forward, leaning his elbow on the table and holding his head up in his hand. “Feel what way, babe?”

Dmitri considers the nickname Eiffel often gives him, _really_ thinks about it. Afterall, he has the time to do that. He considers Eiffel’s half-lidded, almost sultry looking eyes, gazing at him like he were something to be desired.

He hadn’t realized he’d been staring at Eiffel, for what, five, maybe six minutes now? But he doesn’t feel embarrassed about it even as he realizes this, because Eiffel’s been staring right back.

A sudden realization hits Dmitri like a train. He feels breathless, like said analogous train had knocked the wind right out of him. Eiffel has a crush on him, he realizes, shocked he hadn’t seen it earlier. He likes Eiffel, and Eiffel likes him back. The constant anxiety and self-doubt he feels, it must have been clouding his judgement of the situation. It must have been taking all the signs, _such obvious signs,_ Eiffel had been portraying, and skewed them into something more sinister, crippling his self-esteem further.

“I just feel. . . So light.” He leaves off the words “around you” that threatened to worm themselves in at the end of that sentence as Dmitri finally answers. The words sound delayed when they play back in his head, and they reverberate, bouncing off the walls of his skull as if his head is literally empty.

Eiffel laughs a lot, head slipping off his palm and bowing down a bit over his lap as he tries to catch his breath. “Are you feeling it now, Mr. Krabs?” He laughs again, shoulders shaking.

Dmitri hasn’t a clue what that means, but laughs along, genuinely laughs. His laugh starts small, then gradually rises as Eiffel’s laugh slowly dies into half aborted giggles.

Eiffel’s giggles finally ceases as he sighs, gazing at Dmitri with lovesick eyes and a warm smile. “Your laugh is so cute.” He says.

“As is yours.” Dmitri replies before he can think too much about it and psych himself out. They look into each other's eyes for what feels like hours to Dmitri, before Eiffel says, “It’s kinda cold out here, huh?”

Dmitri nods, “Da, is a bit cold.”

Eiffel suggestively wiggles his eyebrows as he says, “So. . . Why don’t we go on in and warm up?”

“Sounds like good idea to me.”

Eiffel grins at him, scooting out of his chair as he stands. He walks around the small table, and entwines his fingers with Dmitri’s. He pulls him up, yanking a bit too hard, and Dmitri stumbles into him.

“Oh, sorry.” Dmitri laughs, pushing off him to back up, careful to mind Eiffel’s bruises.

“No need to be sorry,” Eiffel smirks, wrapping his arm tight around Dmitri’s shoulders.

As they make their way back in, Dmitri wonders how long it’s been since he checked the time. Forty-five minutes is his guess. He checks his watch while Eiffel leads him in. 18:11:34. Dmitri has mentally processed what he believed to be forty-five minutes worth of information, in a mere five minutes. He’s appalled, frankly. Could alteration of brainstates be a form of subjective time-travel? He’s experienced the same with alcohol, only reversed, where five minutes of information is processed in an hour.

He doesn’t redact his previous musing about time possibly not running linear, not _r_ _unning_ at all, simply being laid out on a dimension we can’t comprehend from an outside perspective. But he  _does_ reconsider his statement about time not having “slower” or “faster” as variables when considering _perception_ of time. In our single-dimensional perspectives of experiencing time, we do have a perception of time, and that perception could potentially have subjective variables, that alter our perceptions of its passage.

Boredom, for example. When bored, time seems to slow a significant amount. We brush that off as “today’s been slow,” but have we really ever stopped to consider what that statement means? In a physical context, that statement is groundbreaking. The passage of time today has been slow. _Time has slowed down._

Brainstates alter our subjective perceptions of how humans process time. Marijuana, for some reason, alters Dmitri’s mind in such a way, that time has slowed down incredibly so. He wonders if Eiffel experiences a similar phenomena. He looks up to ask, but when he does, he finds he is no longer in the threshold between the patio and the living room, but wrapped up in a blanket on his couch. Eiffel’s arm is draped over his shoulder, holding him close.

While Dmitri was out in his own mental world, Eiffel had opened his laptop, as well.

“What do you wanna watch?” Eiffel asks.

“Anything.” He hears himself say after the fact, once again the word seeming to reverberate in his skull.  

Dmitri phases out again, thinking about how warm Eiffel’s body is, pressed up against him under the blanket. How comforting the weight of his arm around his shoulders feel.

He reminds himself, over and over again, that Eiffel returns his feelings. Eiffel _likes him back._ He turns to look at Eiffel, his face is so close, mere inches away.

Before he can psych himself out, he crushes all his anxiety, and leans over. He gives Eiffel a light peck on the cheek, before resting his head on Eiffel’s shoulder.

Eiffel tilts his head and rests it atop Dmitri’s, nuzzling his cheek into Dmitri’s hair.

They’re watching some television show, Dmitri believes. About a group of idiots, who find an infant in a dumpster? He isn’t sure, he’s been too focused on Eiffel to care about the plot.

He closes his eyes, focusing on all the various sensations throughout his body, seemingly heightened because of the marijuana. Eiffel’s arm, warm and heavy, wrapped over his shoulders. Eiffel’s body, like a heater, spurring tingles where their bodies touch. His head resting on Eiffel’s shoulder, and Eiffel’s atop it.

He’d never imagine he’d have a relationship this intimate before. Dmitri was sure,  _certain_ he would die cold and alone. Maybe that isn’t the case.

He’s not too sure how long they’ve been watching the show, time is distorted for him after all, when he hears Eiffel yawn, squeezing Dmitri closer against him as he does.

“Do you wanna take this to the bedroom?” Eiffel murmurs, nuzzling his face against Dmitri’s hair.

Dmitri’s heart starts pounding wildly in his chest. He’s never kissed anyone, let alone, well, anything further than kissing.

Before he can think too much about it though, Eiffel is grabbing his hand and pulling him off the couch. Hand-in-hand, Eiffel leads him over to the bedroom. The whole house is spinning and Dmitri has to spend all of his concentrating on remembering how to walk.

He holds the door open for Dmitri, who shuffles in, awkwardly standing by the bed, lost in his head and unsure of how to proceed.

Eiffel follows him in, closing the door behind him. Dmitri watches as he takes off his pants—some jeans Dmitri had lent him, balling them up and throwing them in the laundry pile across the room. He hops spread eagle onto the mattress, bouncing at the impact. He can’t stop staring, unable to decide which decision to make next. He decides to just copy exactly what Eiffel is doing.

Eiffel removed his pants, so Dmitri does as well. He slips one leg out, before he forgets how to go from there. The room starts spinning, and he feels limp and loose and, for some reason, the fact that he’s just standing there with one leg in his pants, and one leg out, is hilarious.

Looking down at the spectacle, his shoulders start shaking as he laughs, helplessly unable to stop laughing even if he wanted to. Eiffel doesn’t know what Dmitri’s laughing about, but he starts giggling as well, covering his mouth with his hand and clenching his eyes shut. They laugh together, Eiffel spread eagle in just his boxer-briefs and a t-shirt, and Dmitri, standing like an idiot at the bedside, half in his pants, half out.

Laughing so hard that breathing hurts, Dmitri finally figures out how to finish taking his pants off, and shimmies out of them, shoving them on the floor. He crawls onto the bed, still giggling as he settles into the spot next to Eiffel. Eiffel finally cracks open his eyes, wheezing from laughter. His eyes are red, and watering, Dmitri notices. He wonders if he looks the same.

They look each other in the eyes, laughing together, for so long it seems to Dmitri, that he’s completely forgotten why they started laughing in the first place.

They still maintain eye contact as their laughter dies down, and finally, stops. Eiffel is smiling, all teeth and joy. Dmitri feels himself smiling as well. He’s not sure when the last time he’s genuinely laughed this hard was, if ever. He’s not sure if he’s ever even _smiled_ this much in his life.

He feels Eiffel’s warmth radiating at his side, and looking into Eiffel’s eyes, he realizes just how in love he really is. This must be what true happiness feels like. He never in a million years would have guessed he would have found it with some idiot he picked up from behind a dumpster in an alleyway.

Slipping his eyes closed, Eiffel leans over, and gently presses their lips together. Sparks ignite where their lips touch, and now Dmitri’s world is no longer spinning, but  _whirling._ Hurling around at a thousand miles per hour, Dmitri can’t focus on anything but the overwhelming dizzying sensation, and the feeling of Eiffel’s mouth against his. He closes his eyes as well as he leans into the kiss, and some instinct within him compels him to wrap his arm around Eiffel’s back, and that seems to be the right thing to do, because nothing has ever felt more perfect than this.

Eiffel breaks away from their kiss, but just for a second, before he plunges back in, their mouths moving together. Eiffel grabs the back of Dmitri’s head, gently pressing him closer.

After a minute, Eiffel pulls away again, but this time Dmitri chases after him, catching his lips in another kiss.

They kiss for another few minutes, time is distorted for Dmitri, so potentially it could have been hours, he isn’t too sure. He doesn’t care, he doesn’t give a single shit. He doesn’t care about time, or physics, or philosophy. All he cares about is Eiffel.

Finally, Eiffel breaks away, leaning down to rest his head on Dmitri’s shoulder. “I’m really tired.”

Dmitri, trying to figure out how to breathe and think, and stop the world from spinning so fast, let alone speak, merely nods.

He lays down in the bed, under the covers, with Eiffel following suit. Eiffel drapes an arm over his stomach, squeezing him close. Their legs entangle under the covers, and Eiffel places a final, light peck on his cheek, before resting his head on the pillow next to Dmitri’s, and falling asleep.

Dmitri spends the next hour enjoying the warmth of Eiffel, mentally reliving their kiss, before he, too, succumbs to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Teamwork makes the dream work, but comments make the dream feel like it has a reason to live


End file.
